


Ghosts of Christmas Past

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural, Superwho - Fandom, Superwood - Fandom, Torchwood
Genre: 1940s, Future Torchwood, M/M, Post-Series, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2831552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows you shouldn't be in London at Christmas. Jack isn't, but he's going to give himself an ulcer (well, figuratively), if he stays glued to the news feeds a minute longer. Castiel has a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Christmas Past

With some memorable exceptions, Christmas Eve found Castiel and Jack alone in the Torchwood 5 Hub. Jack was restless this time, pacing the length of command central. Too much quiet left him anticipating the worst. He tossed all the London news feeds onto the large main screen, waiting for the shoe to drop. Even here in midwestern USA, he was ready to respond to any emergency. His Vortex Manipulator's travel functions might be broken, but he had an angel.

Said angel was currently MIA. "Castiel?"

No answer but the steady pop of stories dropping into the newsfeed. Stories about nothing interesting. Arrests and fires, shopping statistics, new restaurants opening, and soldiers coming home on leave. God, he was bored.

"Castiel?" Jack shouted it this time. He reached up to tap his headset when the silence persisted. It was on, which meant Castiel wasn't nearby. He was thrown by the delay, and rarely remembered how to turn off his headset, so Jack programmed them to deactivate within speaking distance.

_"You have no patience, Jack,"_ Castiel chided him over the headset, voice made small by the microphone.

Jack breathed out, then in, slowly. "Where are you?"

_"The basement,"_ Castiel replied. When he failed to elaborate, Jack guessed he was keeping something back. 

"Coming up soon?" Jack said, opting against trying to tease the information out, "I'm thinking pizza. That place a couple blocks south. You up for a walk?"

_"Are you committed to that plan?"_ Castiel asked. The cagey tone of his voice distracted Jack from the yet-unrealized disasters waiting to descend on London.

He turned towards the basement stairwell. "What are you up to, Castiel?"

_"I recommend you investigate,"_ was the last transmission. Jack's headset dinged, informing him that the line had closed. He hurried up, just a little more. The basement stairwell seemed unusually dark as Jack entered. The overhead lights were out They didn't have a 'switch' per se. Turning them off required visiting the circuit breakers.

Jack tapped his headset. "Got a little electrical problem up here," he said, fishing out his penlight, "is that you?"

Castiel ghosted out of the gloom in front of him, the headset connection snapped off, and Jack sipped a breath. In the halo of Jack's penlight, Castiel was dressed like a US Army sergeant. Jack recognized the era of his uniform by the cut and color. Castiel might have stepped out of a sepia photograph from 1944. The fingers holding his torch were suddenly nerveless, and Castiel took the light gently from his hand. "You won't need this," he said, joined Jack on the step, and offered his arm.

He was right. The gloom was no worse than a moonless night, Jack thought, and then it _was_ a moonless night, snow ticking down on his shoulders in fits and starts. The cold rushed at him, and he released Castiel's arm to wrap his own about his chest. Castiel must have noticed his discomfort. "Not much longer," he said comfortingly, spreading a hand on Jack's back to guide him down the corridor, amid the snowfall.

They reached the door that would normally lead to a storage bay. Castiel pushed it open, and it swung easily, spilling a hot breath of air and warm light out into the cold. This was all an illusion, Jack thought, spotting familiar concrete walls and steel rivets, if he looked from the corner of his eye. An illusion, but a loving one. Smells reached out to Jack, of fresh paint and perfume, wine and onions. In a moment more, the door swung shut behind them, and they stood at the top landing of a staircase, looking out onto a sea of dancers.

A lovely young woman in a bright red sweetheart dress flew past them, her heels flashing down the staircase. She smiled at them with red, red lips. Her descent led Jack's gaze to individual people - her boyfriend the Private First Class, the rest of his company scattered out around the floor, tawny uniforms standing out in sharp contrast among the festive skirts. There were people dancing, filling tables, lounging at the polished bar. Above it all Count Basie played, and Jack more or less forgot to worry about London.

There was a scrubby tree in one corner, decorated with white paper chains and strings of popcorn. A handpainted banner wished the company a safe journey and a merry Christmas.

Jack's chest tightened. He gulped a sharp breath, followed it up with a few slower ones, and turned to Castiel. "This isn't real."

Castiel nodded. "An illusion. Merry Christmas, Jack. I hope it suits you."

Jack took in Castiel one more time from top to toe, and pulled him in for a hug. "Would anything else suit me more?"

Without a word, Castiel stepped down, turned, and offered Jack his hand. "I have one request."

Turning Castiel's knuckles up to sweep a kiss across them, Jack smiled at him. "Name it."

"I claim the first dance."


End file.
